Sleep fell not all at once, but a warm blanket that covered her in small moments. She could not admit to loneliness, to the cold that grew with each moment she remained trapped in this House. There were no comforts, no distractions, only the books which were devoured. There never seemed to be enough.
The House was a strange ally, a friend, if you could count one who could not truly speak to you or hold you a friend. The cracks in her heart screamed at her, as though they were torn wider with each passing moment. And the . . . thing within only clawed at her with talons of ice, of a never ending hunger. It reminded her of the loneliness which had become her truth, for she were nothing more than a problem. A hated thing from her sister's husband, he was no brother to her. A problem to be solved, a piece to be shoved into a perfect hole no matter how it broke her by Feyre. And useless to Elain now.
It took all of her will, from every moment of the day, to keep the power in check, to not let the rage rush to the surface. It was cold, the chill of Winters many had forgotten, the endless nothingness before the universe spilled forth, when there was only the void, empty and cold. No man, no fae, only this devouring chill that hungered for everything it was denied.
It followed Nesta into her dreams, where unspoken nightmares haunted her. Brittle pieces of shattered glass, each slicing at her heart in ways she could not express, lest she admitted to the weakness she felt she was filled with. In her fury, she reached forth and wretched something from the very walls of the Cauldron. She had not been prepared for that which she took, or the wounds it would create, carving out a home for itself in the pit of her chest.
The room was silent, a silence that once would have been a blessing but now only left her alone with her thoughts. Soon, her fingertips cold with a chill that could not be chased away by flames, were no longer felt as her mind grew foggy. Sleep seeped through her, relaxing her muscles, drawing her further into that place of in between. Reality twisted and bent in impossible angles to fulfill the will of fantasies and terrors alike.
~~~~~~~~~~~
"Worthless girl!"
The scratchy, elder voice screeched at her, echoing in the dance hall. She barely had a moment to harden her spine before the pain of the thin switch was felt against her back. Her grandmother glared at her, the anger hanging heavily on her once beautiful features . . .now she looked like a frail bird, angry with every step Nesta took.
"I am tired, grandmother. I . . .I will perfect it tomorrow, if I could just rest. I hurt."
"Pain is life. You will not rest until you have perfected the pirouette, or you will not walk tomorrow."
Nesta worked not to flinch when her grandmother's walking stick slammed on the ground, a harsh sound that echoed through the room that was a clear dismissal . . .and a demand to begin again.
Seven marks were left that night upon her back.
Only four drew blood.
She perfected the pirouette.
Three nights later, she dazzled every visiting noble family.
The pain wasn't so terrible when they smiled at her so brightly, when her father kissed her cheeks, when her mother glowed with pride.
No. The pain wasn't so bad after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~
There was snow in her shoes.
It melted against her skin until she could no longer feel her toes. Snow had fallen throughout the night, and now it reached nearly the middle of her calf. And yet, she marched on, dress pulled up again and again with each step forward she took.
The winds shook the trees, whistling through the trees with a haunting melody. A song sang from that which rested above, a warning . . .or perhaps a calling.
Cold had long since sank into her body, bones rattling as she shivered, eyes intent on the wall in the distance. She could finally see it, that strange creation. As the snow whipped around her with another strong gust of wind, her vision blurred. Her jaw clenched, seeing the claw marks in her memory, such horrible marks of destruction, followed by the chipping paint upon a dresser. Anger, a white hot thing, flared in her chest.
Something had taken her sister. They had no aunts, filthy lies falling on her ears from the mouth of the deceitful fae. No matter what else, something had taken her, taken who was Nesta's, by birth, by right, by blood.
She could not give up, not after . . .she could not give up on Feyre.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wall was endless.
She walked for hours, circling, fingertips pressing against the strange stone as she desperately sought a crack, an opening, a secret . . .anything.
The sun fell long before she finally accepted that there was nothing to find. No longer was there painful shivering, but a numbness as she stumbled and fell. Her arms stretched out, trying to catch herself, but Nesta only fell through snow that was little more than fluff until her arms hit the ground, her knee slamming into a rock with a force that had her teeth slamming against one another.
She might have cried, once, at the pain . . .but now there was only a scream of fury. A gutteral sound that ripped out of her chest as she shook, and for a moment . . .a glimpse of a moment, the winds stilled as the moon stared down on her. Failure cut through her nearly as sharp as loss.
No Mother.
No Feyre.
And she was useless, useless to save any of them.
~~~~~~~~~~
They were starving.
Food had been used up two nights ago, she had watched as Elain carefully cut up the remaining dinner between them. Helplessness embraced fury for a life they never should have been forced to endure in her chest, her eyes remaining settled on her worthless father.
They starved, and he did not care to protect his own daughters.
Feyre was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The only option left for her family, to keep the only person left with her which she cared for alive, was to marry Tomas.
She had put off the proposal for a week now, hoping that she could have . . .found an answer. Any answer, to save them from this fate. His father beat his mother, she had seen the bruises, had heard Feyre's warning . . .and yet, what power did a woman with no title, no rank, and no money yield?What more could she offer?
She stared at the ceiling that night, holding Elain as she shivered, pulling her closer as though she could simply force all of her own body heat into her frail sister.
Pain was life.
It would only last a little longer.
Elain would be safe.
Elain would live.
No Mother.
No Feyre.
Useless.
~~~~~~~~~~~
They arrived in carts that glittered, carrying chests filled with so much gold and jewels, Elain nearly fell into Nesta's arms.
Lies fell forth, a sick aunt, forgotten and yet remembered by and for Feyre. Ships suddenly found, money beyond imagination gained and dropped at their feet. Her father finally looked as though life still existed within.
Elain's gracefulness, her gratefulness, her excitement . . .
The truth settled coldly in Nesta's chest.
And yet, she did not speak. She only smiled, happy to see Elain smile, to see her eat, to see her safe.
There was no need for Tomas.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Nesta hated Tomas's nose.
She nearly told him as much, but found in light of Elain's new found comfort, the light her sister's happiness basked all of them in, even Tomas was deserving of some kindness.
She tried to let him go, easy, gentle as she ever was. No cruel words, only a truth, even he deserved the truth, after all.
There was no gentleness for Nesta in Tomas's heart.
As she turned from him, from the growing anger, she let a breath go only to have it catch in her chest as harsh fingers reached for her. His pudgy face was stained red with his anger as he whirled her about, glaring down at her.
"You cannot do this! I won't allow it, you were mine!"
His breath came as heavy pants as Nesta fought to get out of his embrace, her own breath suddenly leaving her as he slammed her against a tree.
"If I can't have you . . . I'll make sure no one wants the Archeron whore."
Terror unlike anything she had ever known before rose up in her as his hands tore at her blouse, kneading her breasts, leaving bruises to form where he touched. She struggled, pushed and pulled, but he was too large, something she had not taken as a threat until this moment.
His weight suffocating.
His teeth bit, his fingers pinched. Terror settled like a cold blanket as she heard her grandmother's voice suddenly screaming in her head. His fingers traveled where no man had touched, violent and greedy.
Useless.
With no finesse, only a desperation to escape, her head moved, slamming forward against his nose. Fingers scratched at him until she managed to push him off of her, even as blood dripped from his broken nose as the boy cursed at her.
She fled to the edge of town.
Her blouse was ruined, in tatters.
Her skirt was filthy.
Her thighs throbbed painfully.
Her body shook with a terror unlike any thing she had known in this world.
Nesta allowed herself two moments, two moments to cry, to feel the pain. A pain that haunted womankind, and yet, her father's station had been meant to always protect her.
No one protected Nesta.
As she pulled her shirt tight, she walked the longest route home, telling herself the only thing she could think, the only piece of truth she had left.
The pain would only last a little longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"He stole you away into the night, claiming some nonsense about the Treaty. And then everything went on as if it had never happened. It wasn't right. None of it was right."
"You . . .you came for me?"
The shock was enough to send another pinch of hurt at Nesta, as though she were so selfish, so terrible, she could not be bothered to seek out Feyre, to find a way to get her back.
The pain would only last a while.
Her features hardened, refusing to let the hurt show, to let it move through her. There would be no weakness.
"It wasn't right."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was no heat in Hell. There was endless cold, silver which seeped into your bones, endless terrors unfolding. It lived within the depths of the Cauldron.
Every muscle, every bone, every cell was torn apart and reshaped. Hands did not reach for her within, but a force that could not be held away. The liquid within filled her lungs, bursting her blood vessels, breaking her, taking her, killing her.
The desperation rose up again as she was violated, again and again, until she was a thing of invisible scars. She screamed, but could not be heard, no one was going to save her.
No one was going to protect her.
As her muscles reformed, her body finding shape, so did the wrath which lived in her soul. A cold, cutting thing. Furious for everything taken from her. For all who had failed her. For all she had failed. For a fate she never asked for.
The thing, this horrible thing, is drew up in warning, a promise for pain if she did not submit, the terror it would unleash upon her.
But the pain would always fade.
She lashed forward, scraping against those black sides of all that created the universe, screaming as something lashed against her, and yet she held tight. She would not be broken, taken and reshaped for the will of others, not without payment.
It ripped through her, barely contained within her chest, calling out to its master. Ragged claws cut through her from within the cage of her ribs, slicing at her flesh again and again until all she could do was scream within the void of the Cauldron, certain if she were cracked open with even a splinter, the thing would spill forth with gore and her ruined flesh.
The pain would fade.
Eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~~
She woke with a scream stuck in her throat, tears hot on her cheeks as she shivered beneath the sheets despite the thin layer of sweat which clung to her skin. The room was dark with only the filtered light of the moon daring to enter.
Her gaze remained on the empty fireplace as the tears continued to fall, her cries silent, always silent as the darkness beckoned.
There was only silence as the hours ticked by and eventually the sun rose, it's heat warming her skin, the tears drying against her cheeks as though they had never been there in the first place.
Another day.
Another pain.
It would end eventually.
Eventually.